Rationalism Revisited by Kenneth Minogue (Presidential Address, Michael Oakeshott Association Conference, Colorado College, 25th September, 2003) The essays Michael Oakeshott wrote on rationalism in the late 1940s occupy a curious place in his career. Because they contain occasional flashes of passion, they have sometimes been demoted to polemic. On the other hand, they initiate the relatively short period in which Oakeshott became a public intellectual, to be succeeded by his installation in the public mind as a kind of eminence grise mistakenly thought to lurk behind the revival of free market conservative politics in the late 1970s. The idea of rationalism was the closest thing Oakeshott produced to a popular idea: not, indeed, very popular, but certainly something that could be assimilated to familiar ideas of conservatism as the cultivation of tradition. The point of the rationalism argument was to exhibit an intellectual mistake. A world that had grown accustomed to thinking of politics as a succession of problems to be solved was to be shown that faith in reason was merely the construction of a tower of Babel. Rationalism seemed to be a way of improving the world, but turned out to be a cluster of false beliefs and deluded hopes. With Oakeshott, one never gets anything as brutish as a trend, but we do learn that this thing has a “character and pedigree” and elsewhere it has a “shape”. He might have chosen to characterise it as a “parasite”, because it wrapped itself around science and history no less than practice. What he actually did call it was an “infection.” “That all contemporary politics are deeply infected with Rationalism will be denied only by those who choose to give the infection another name,” he wrote. In other words, he was in the business of social critique, and his target was one already attacked in various forms by other writers. And indeed the names of the infection are legion: some talking of scientism, others of technology, ideology and even “the colonisation of the Lebenswelt”. Hayek was the critic of “constructive rationalism.” Rationalism intersects at least with all of these things and it has close affinities with other phenomena that Oakekshott discusses at various points, such as the politics of perfection or the character of the anti-individual. Rationalism is above all the attempt to snatch by main force what can only be plucked when the time is ripe. The rationalist is supremely the mono-modal bore targeted in Experience and its Modes, for whom philosophy, poetry history and even science are essentially practical. Rationalism is thus merely the name given to possibly the most comprehensive specification of the cast of mind whose features Oakeshott found both fascinating and repellent throughout his long life. Perhaps the most striking feature of rationalism is that it is progressive. It is “of a kind which the passage of time must make more rather than less severe” because it 2 of 2 “amounts to a corruption of the mind.” (p. 371) As the inevitable anomalies emerge from rationalist strivings, a fruitless hope will be invested in the next big idea for solving whatever the problem might be. The rationalist can see only a structure of abstractions. Like Midas, who is doomed to encounter only what he has transformed, the rationalist is characteristically incapable of experiencing anything “straight” because he turns everything he touches into a doctrine. The main reason why rationalism is a progressive degeneration of a civilisation’s capacity for thought — indeed, for reason itself — is that “a society which has embraced a rationalist idiom of politics will soon find itself either being steered or drifting towards an exclusively rationalist form of education.” (p. 37) The sense that rationalism was a nightmare from which it was almost impossible to awake was further reinforced at the time by the fact that many people responded to his argument with the demand to be told how to solve this new problem. The essay “Rationalism in Politics” is thus a powerful account of the predicament of the West and one that points to continuing degeneration. I take this as an invitation to consider the evolution of rationalism since 1947. That is clearly a tall order, and I shall merely make some remarks on three questions. I shall consider first education, which he thought fundamental, then morality and religion, and finally I shall make one or two remarks about the current “shape” of rationalism. I. First education, where my treatment will be unavoidably local, though not, I think, untypical of what has been happening in other countries. Oakeshott disliked the Butler Act of 1944 which set up a system of education in Britain by which schools funded by the state were distinguished into grammar, technical and secondary modern. Here was educational provision evidently designed to correspond to what were then thought to be the needs of the economy: the provision of managers, technicians and workers. It is a good example of Oakeshott’s suggestion that rationalism often generates ideologies that are inappropriate because they are based on activities other than those that they purport to guide. And this inappropriate system was now being used to enforce the conviction that educational provision in Britain should be organised from the centre as a single comprehensive system. Did I say “comprehensive”? Indeed, for a new sense of that seductive word was the germ of the next big idea. The Butler Act was hardly in business before it collided, as abstract policies often do, with another abstract idea: that the schools should be instrumental to the remaking of society as something less stratified by class than what exists. Butler’s plans were socially divisive. Democracy required inclusive “comprehensives” in which pupils of all backgrounds and abilities were assigned to neighbourhood schools irrespective of tested ability. Some attempt was in fact made to balance in schools the distributions of A’s B’s and Cs. But the overriding aim was to avoid the process of selecting the more academically educable pupils at the age of eleven by examination. It was also predicated on the belief that forcing middle class children, with their supportive family life, to learn alongside pupils without much interest in learning 1 Page numbers refer to the revised and expanded edition of Rationalism in Politics, ed. T. Fuller (Indianapolis: Liberty Press, 1991). 3 of 3 would raise the general level of culture. These were no doubt beneficent aims, and no doubt some things may have improved, but the fate of this “reform” (as these changes are called) was to collide with another project. That project was another rationalist idea bubbling up, this time from below. I refer to the belief, just coming to dominate teaching colleges from the 1950s onward, that the traditional form of education — as the authoritative imparting of knowledge to children — was a form of coercive indoctrination. Something called “rote-learning” (poems by heart, multiplication tables, for example) was regarded as especially pernicious. Pupils should rather be allowed freely to respond to their own individual need for knowledge, at their own pace. The combination of this pedagogic fashion with the comprehensive “revolution” in schools led to a collapse of authority and discipline in British schools. A new generation of illiterates began emerging from schools. They were alienated and unemployable. It did not help that yet another moral fashion had removed corporal punishment and other forms of effective control (such as summary expulsion) from the disciplinary repertoire. Classrooms became remarkably “inclusive”, and one element included was a good dose of Bedlam. By the 1980s classroom disorder was widely recognised as yet another crisis unfolding in the crisis-ridden narrative of British education, but previous reforms had been so institutionally brutal that it was hard to see how improvements might begin. An end to mixed ability teaching in some schools was merely palliative, but the Ministry of Education, forever feeding off disaster in order to grow in power, soon came up with a solution: a succession of examinations at the ages of 7, 11, 16 and 18 would serve to test whether pupils were learning anything. An ingrained suspicion about the competence of teachers had now become ingrained throughout education, and teachers of course hated this. The original idea had been for relatively casual tests as a specific against the dangers of teacher-induced ignorance, but a perfectly sensible idea fell into the hands of experts. A new Education Act hundreds of pages long set out a whole new system elaborating what should be taught by creating a wholly new thing called a “national curriculum.” The Continental practice by which Ministers could tell at any given moment what children of any age were doing in schools had long been a joke in England. In the 1980s, the laughter died on our lips. Nor did the new system immediately produce a harvest of scholarly achievement. A new plan for smoking out pedagogic incompetence now emerged: why not publicise how schools were faring in terms of exam results — what later came to be called “naming and shaming”. Performance indicators were the thing! Educational authorities began publishing lists of how many exam results at such and such a level each school was achieving. It was hoped that this system would reveal which schools were “adding value” to pupils, and which were failing in their task. The temptation to cheat about this, in one way or another, became irresistible, and indeed in the most obvious way, some schools did begin faking their results. The main corruption resulting from the long domination of education by government at this point was, however, the collapse of confidence in the tests themselves.